Back to Back, They Faced Each Other
by Relativity1953
Summary: The Winchester boys set off to a haunted house for a hunt, only to find two groups of hunters already there. The problem is, they have all heard different stories about who is haunting the house.
1. Woke Up Dead

_One day in the middle of the night, two dead boys got up to fight._

_Back-to-back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other._

_A deaf policeman heard the noise, and rushed to save the two dead boys._

_A paralyzed donkey walking by, kicked the copper in the eye,_

_sent him through a rubber wall, into a dry ditch and drown them all._

_(If you don't believe this lie is true, ask the blind man – he saw it too!)_

* * *

**Woke Up Dead**

_prologue_

The first thing he noticed was the smell. It was a mix of staleness and mildew and dust, long-dead flowers and a hint of moth balls. It was the distinct odor of age and neglect.

But then sound hit. First was the far-away bellow of a grandfather clock. The deep, resonant tone calling out the hour. One chime. Two. Three. And then a faint click and clink-clink-clink of the pendulum and chains.

There were also the general creaks and groans of an old house settling... So, he was in a house. He didn't remember being in a house. The last place he could remember being in was a typical, shabby motel – cheap and half-way to caving in, with miss-matched floral patterns on the bedspreads, carpet, and wallpaper.

It was the booming rumble of thunder that brought him back to his current setting. He could also pick up the sounds of big, fat raindrops pounding on the rooftop and at windows. And further away, he could hear the splashing sound of the drops pouring into the mud outside.

But it was so dark. He couldn't even see his hand in front of his face... and that's when he realized that his eyes were closed. Feeling stupid, he opened his eyes and jumped back, startled, coming face to face with himself. Or, he realized as his heart slowed down again, his reflection.

The large, ornate mirror had cobwebs hanging from its once-beautiful, now-tarnished frame. And there was a crack in the bottom right-hand corner. The wall behind the mirror was painted deep olive green and chipping in many places.

On either side of the mirror, and strategically spaced further down along the wall, were web-filled sconces. Strangely enough, the candles in the sconces seemed fairly new and flickered their small flames in the draft that flowed constantly around him. Now that he'd seen them, he could also detect the burning wax scent. And, looking around, he realized that the candles were the only source of light in the otherwise long and dark hallway.

So, why was he suddenly standing _with his eyes closed_ in this old, empty hallway, seemingly alone, when the last thing he remembered was watching late night infomercials on a muted television while his brother slept in the bed opposite him and his cousin busied herself doing whatever it was that she did instead of sleep in the room next door?

Ah... so he was dreaming.

Of course, most people woke up when they realized they were actually dreaming. But, he seldom did things the _normal_ way and, because of how vivid his surroundings seemed, he could only assume it was one of _those_ dreams. One of his psychic-Sammy specials.

_Well, might as well pay attention then_, he thought as he walked along the hall. He tried a couple of the doors he passed, but they were locked and he apparently forgot to dream-pack his lock pick set. And, the few doors that weren't locked were unused bedrooms – judging by the dust that was as yet undisturbed.

Finally, the hall ended, curved to the left, and a narrow doorway led to an even narrower winding staircase. Luckily, this was a just dream and he didn't have to worry about the dizzying effects of an area made for someone half his size. He didn't have to worry about hitting his head either.

He ended up in a small opening between the kitchen, the pantry, and another locked door. Unlike the dusty bedrooms, the kitchen had obviously been used recently. In fact, the half-filled percolator (a French press, he remembered from a trip to Jess's great-aunt's house) on the stove was still emitting steam and the aromatic scent of strong coffee.

The cupboards seemed stocked with essentials, as did the pantry. There were no modern appliances – no microwave, toaster, or even refrigerator. But, the stove and the sink, though old, seemed well-maintained. Or at least, newly cleaned and repaired.

There was only a small table in the kitchen, much too small for the size of the house, so he figured that there would be a dining area beyond. Through the swinging double doors, he found a large open area that could put his old student union to shame. And right down the center of the rectangular room was the longest solid-wood table he had even seen. He didn't really know the different types of wood, but this looked like it had been around for a while and it had withstood time.

The room was beautiful, but plain. He could see, as he walked toward the opposite end of the table, that there had once been portraits on the wall. There were still nails, heavy and thick, embedded in the once-ivory walls and voids where the original paint had not yellowed quiet as much, having been hidden from the sun for years.

One of the chairs towards the end of the table had been knocked over, the rest still sitting politely in their appropriate places. In front of the over-turned chair was a mug of coffee, cooling but slightly warm, and couple of open books. In the middle of the display was a worn journal with hastily scrawled notes and drawings, and a pen sitting halfway in the binding.

Leaning over to try and read some of the notes in the poorly lit room, he had to laugh a little. From what he could make out, the sentence structure (if you could call it that) was as bad as his father's and the penmanship was even worse. He couldn't read most of it, but certain words – _Tremblay House, R & M Asher, G G, Miriam Baine, Lucy_ – were written in clear capital letters.

He barely noticed the snap before hearing the crash of breaking and scattering of glass, feeling the vibration through the floor. He ran through the doorway and into a wide open hallway and then further on through an already opened door. The room was large, like a great room or ballroom, and lit only by the wild flames in the fireplace.

He thought it was strange that he could feel the shattered glass breaking further under his feet as he walked further into the room, and yet there was no accompanying crunch. He could see that there were at least two other people in the room, but couldn't make out any details.

"You OK?" one asked, voice only slightly louder than a whisper, but it was still obvious the speaker was male. A gruff _mmmph_ of assent let him know the second person was a man as well.

Then, there were footsteps – first running downstairs, then through the hallway, and finally into the room. He couldn't tell how many – definitely more than one other person – and a large dog. Though, he knew the animal was a dog more by the sudden growl than the sound of its movement.

A chorus of voices began speaking/yelling. _Over there. Look out. Behind you. Duck._

It was a spirit, that was certain, maybe more than one. He was beginning to feel dizzy with all the sudden action surrounding him, hearing and feeling it without being able to really _see_ anything more than shapes.

The humans in the room began taking action against the ghosts. Definitely hunters. He could hear chanting, feel salt being hurled around and weapons (he hoped they were pure iron) waving around him – idly wondering what would happen if he was hit.

_Look out!_ shouted a voice in motion, as another yelled _No don't!_

A gun very close to his left ear fired and all sound, save the buzzing in his head, stopped.

Very muffled, as if speaking from another room, voices started to come through again.

"The hell did you think you were doing?" a somewhat familiar voice said. "A bullet ain't gonna work on a ghost, boy. You can't kill what ain't alive!"

"Iron rounds, old man," a younger voice justified. "And you'll notice they're gone!"

"For now," mumbled a voice behind him.

"Hey, hey, hey," a voice near the young one said. "He did good. You did good, son."

"Thanks, Pop," the young voice said proudly.

He noticed that the storm outside was letting up, the heavy raindrops now a constant light drizzle. The wind was dying down as well, which in turn caused the flickering flames to calm and help light the dark room. As his eyes adjusted and his hearing came back into full range, he noticed a man standing up from the floor and hurrying over to a spot behind a sofa.

"Hey! Hey man, you OK?" the voice, the original voice he heard in the room, asked again. It was no longer a whisper, but it was even more panicked. "John! Johnny, you OK?"

He was about to move forward when the mumbling man behind him charged ahead – almost through him.

"What it is, Oz?"

Joining the mumbler, he could now see a figure lying on the floor between the fireplace and the sofa. _He pushed me out of the way._ There was a hole – a bullet-sized hole – in the man's chest and an expanding pool of blood beneath him making a run for the fireplace. _'s heart, man. Direct hit._ The chest was not moving – the man was not breathing. Even as the mumbler reached down to try and find a pulse, he knew...

_I'm sorry..._

He didn't want to – well, that was the monster of all understatements – but he had to. Sam looked at the man's face.

"Dad?" he whispered, sounding all of five years old.

John Winchester lay on that cold, hard floor in a pool of his own blood and it didn't matter how hard he shook his head or how loudly he denied it, there was nothing Sam could do about it.

"DAD!"

oo0oo

It took him a moment to fully wake up because, let's face it, he didn't exactly _want_ to leave the dream where he and a Tyra-Heidi-Gisele amalgamation were in the middle of...

"No, Dad!" the pleading yell came a second time.

Dean turned over in his bed to see Sam sitting up and breathing heavy. His first thought, of course, was to make a joke about the rating of Sam's dream, but the fact that his kid brother looked like a terrible mix of scared and sick (not to mention the dream he was just pulled out of – and, no, he was definitely not going to snicker at that!) made him reconsider.

"Sam, are you all right?" Kole asked, rushing in from the adjoining room.

There had only been a couple of instances since their cousin had been riding with them that Dean had stopped at a motel that didn't offer any adjoining rooms. Strangely, even the crappy places they frequented had apparently once been reputable enough to be considered 'family friendly'. Never wanting to be even a locked door away, on those few occasions he insisted the three of them share a room. After the third time, in which they had each decided never to speak of again, Dean made sure to stay only at places with adjoining rooms – and they never locked or closed that shared door at night.

"Vision?" Dean did his best not to grunt the question.

"I think so," Sam said, distracted by his own thoughts. "I hope not."

"Sam," Kole, sitting on the bed next to Sam now, started, "you called out for your father..."

It wasn't a question, but the trailed off statement obviously wanted more detail. Kole had never seen Sam during a waking-vision, only ever seeing the aftermath of a psychic-dream. But, she had seen the way Dean reacted to them enough times to take them seriously and find out as much as possible, as quickly as possible.

Sam licked his lips and tried hard to swallow. He still looked like he was lost, though both Dean and Kole knew that he was actually trying to sort through the things he had just seen in his own mind, his own way.

"Hey Kole..." Dean started, but Kole was already standing up from the bed and walking toward her own room.

"I'll get you some water, Sam," she told him, told them, then saw Sam squeeze his eyes shut and hold his head as if he was afraid it might come apart if he didn't. "And some aspirin."

She retrieved one of the bottles of water she placed in the mini-fridge the night they checked in, shut the door, and then opened it again to grab another bottle. Then, she grabbed an aspirin bottle from her bag and handed them to Dean, who was standing in the adjoining doorway.

"Let me know if you need anything else, OK?" she told him, knowing when to back out of the conversation. The boys had let her into their lives, allowing her to see a lot, but there were still some things that they needed to keep to themselves. She had gotten pretty good at knowing when to back off.

"Thanks," Dean said, and both he and Kole closed their doors (though still didn't latch them) to give the Winchesters some privacy.

oo0oo

"OK Sammy," Dean said quietly as he handed a bottle of water to his brother and began opening the container of aspirin. "What'cha got?"

"Huh?" Sam stalled, opening his water and then shaking four tablets into his hand. He popped the pills into his mouth and chased them down with almost half of the water.

"Dude, you know how this has been working lately," Dean said patiently. "We gotta get the details before they disappear, man."

Sam was barely keeping his dinner at bay as it was. He really didn't think it would stay down for long once he began telling Dean about the dream. He knew, as his brother did, that his psychic-dreams acted the same way any garden variety dream did – they faded fast, and the harder he tried to remember, the quicker they melted away. But he really couldn't imagine ever forgetting these details, even if he wanted to. Which he did.

"Um... haunted house, more than one spirit, middle of the night..." Sam trailed off, hoping the bare minimum would satisfy his brother.

"And Dad?" Yeah, he knew it wouldn't work.

"What?"

"Dude, you're stalling," Dean told him. "You called out for Dad."

"Oh," Sam said, looking away, "right. He was already on the case."

"Does he need help?"

"No, no, he already had a few guys with him," Sam said before thinking. He knew as soon as that part slipped out... "Dean, I didn't mean - "

"No, that's good," Dean told him quickly, standing up and turning his back to his brother. Sam realized was grabbing some fresh clothes from his duffel bag.

"Dean?"

"Well, you know, more than one spirit... good to have more than one guy on the job..." He was rapidly getting dressed.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam asked and saw his brother grab his phone and shove it in his pocket, then head towards the door. "Where are you going?"

"Its only 12:30 and that bar down the street seemed to be open late last night..." Dean opened the door without looking back at Sam. "We're gonna need some money soon..." And with that, he was gone.

oo0oo

Sam stared at the closed door for a couple of minutes before shaking his head and turning to grab the motel stationary from the drawer of the nightstand. There were so many different directions he wanted to move in and so many different thoughts going through his head, but he knew if he didn't write down a couple of the details from his dream they would be lost.

He closed his eyes to try and picture the journal page, but even in his head he couldn't pull all the words out again. He scrawled out what he could remember: _Asher, G G, Miriam, Lucy_. And there was something about a house... Asher House? It didn't look right when he wrote it. He drew a line through 'Asher' and put a question mark after 'House'.

He knew his cousin was probably climbing the walls in the next room, having heard Dean leave and still not knowing what was going on, but there was one more thing Sam wanted to do on his own. He grabbed his phone and dialed his father's number.

"Yeah," came the gruff voice on the other end of the line. Sam knew time didn't really mean anything to the Winchesters. They kept odd hours and traveled to different time zones frequently, but he still felt bad that he may have woken his father.

"Hey, Dad," Sam started timidly. "Its um... its Sam."

"I know that Sam," John told him. "I have caller ID, too. What's up, son?"

Sam had heard John angry and irritated enough to know what those voices sounded like. Right now his father was, well, as patient as possible. Ever since the accident, ever since Dean nearly died, and John nearly died, his dad had been trying. Sam could see it – John was scared with how close they came to losing one another and, while he still felt it safer (for all of them) to be separated, he was actually checking in and keeping the lines of communication open.

As much as Sam had hated his father's decision to split up before, he understood now. Funny how things had changed. Now it was Dean that was upset by the separation. He accepted it, of course, because that's what Dean always does, but he wasn't happy about it. And Sam had finally figured out why – and knew why the careless slip earlier had caused Dean to withdraw.

Sam, though he had once vehemently denied it, was just like his father – stubborn, headstrong, and always (well, maybe sometimes) right. They both had their moments of guilt and sadness, especially when it came to the fate of the women they loved, but for the most part they thought themselves righteous.

Dean was different. Sam once tried to apply his Psych-101 knowledge to his older brother and soon found that there was no preset pattern, no blueprint already in place that depicted Dean's childhood. Really, who could have come up with that?

Sam had spent the better portion of his pre-teen and teen years hating the way he was raised, how he lived. It wasn't until much later, quite recently in fact, that he realized that the measly amount of _normal_ he was granted was because his brother tried to make it so. His older brother, older by a mere 4 years and yet forced to become an _adult_ way before his time, gave up his own life to try and give Sam what he needed and wanted. And yet, he could see that there was a part of Dean that still felt he had failed, that he hadn't given Sam enough.

Coming to that realization, Sam could at least explain why Dean often seemed immature. He never really had the chance to take his time and grow up.

"Sam? Sammy, you still there?" John's voice brought him back to himself.

"Yeah, sorry Dad. I was just wondering what you were working on... you know, are you on a hunt?"

"Well, I just finished a job," John said, clearly confused. "I'm in the middle of some research for my next gig... practically finished, actually."

"A haunted house?" Sam asked quickly. "Do you have back-up? Maybe someone a little trigger-happy?"

"What? No, no son, its actually just a routine exorcism - "

"So it is a haunting?"

"Sam, no, its just a case of people thinking they've seen a ghost when in fact its just a shadow person. A pretty tame one at that."

"One? Don't they usually manifest in groups?"

"Usually yes," John said with a hint of pride, his son remembering an obscure detail taught years ago. "This time though, there's just one. And like I said, just a routine exorcism to clear it. Sam, what's going on?"

"Oh, well..." how exactly do you tell your father you just had a dream (a psychic dream) of his death?

"Sammy, what's wrong? Are you OK? Your brother..."

"No, no Dad we're fine," Sam lied. "I just wanted to check in, you know?"

There had been a lot of _checking in_ going on since the accident. Sam would call John, John would call Sam, John would call Dean and get the typical _expected_ responses to his questions, then John would call Sam again and find out what was really going on. _Checking in_ was no longer really questioned.

"Oh," John answered, only sounding half-convinced. "You would tell me if something is wrong, right Sam?"

"Of course I would, Dad," Sam responded, the question pretty loaded but Sam could give an equally-evasive answer. "Everything is fine here. You know... same old, same old."

"OK," John wanted to call him on the cryptic response, but found he couldn't ask anything specific without getting into the touchy-feely, decidedly non-Winchester way of life. "Feel free to call me any time, Sammy," and he meant it. Then he threw out one more line, "Tell your brother that too, OK?"

"I will, Dad," Sam said, appreciating the sentiment. "Thanks," and he meant it as well.

oo0oo

Sam took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back until it hit the wall behind his bed. After hanging up with his father, he felt better. Really, he did. Of course, if he allowed himself to analyze the situation, he could probably make himself angry that such a little, a _normal_ gesture, such as a phone call, could bring him such peace of mind. But that was teen-aged, rebellious Sam. Now, he was happy to take the calm where he could.

But why did it seem that he and his brother could never find happiness, tranquility, at the same time? And once again, he was regretful at the thought that his older brother seemed to sacrifice his own happiness for him.

He knew that Dean felt guilty in the aftermath of the accident. Hell, its not like Dean had felt vindicated just before the semi T-boned the car. Sam could see it in his brother's eyes. As their possessed father ranted and raved about Dean being unloved and unneeded, he could see the belief and acceptance there as his brother taunted the son-of-a-bitch even more. It was as if he knew it was true but still felt the need to protect his baby brother.

Sam wanted to tell Dean, to explain, so badly... but how do you go about telling your brother that your father loves him just as much, loves both of his sons the same? It seems like something a child, a man trapped forever inside his worst childhood fears, should just know. How do you tell someone that? When all he sees are his failures, what he perceives as failures, and an inability to measure up?

If you would have told Sam – young Sammy, not adult Sam – that his older brother felt he was never good enough, he would have never believed it. Not only did Sammy see Dean as practically perfect in every way, but he was Sammy's hero. How could a hero have such doubts?

But every loss, every hunt that didn't go perfectly, every time he was too late to save someone, Dean held onto it. It was like an anti-trophy he used to try and make himself better. And, when John used their one weapon against the demon to make a deal, to save Dean's life, and in the process nearly lose his own? How could he explain to his brother that it had all been worth it? How could he explain that he had never been so proud of their father (so proud of himself) as when their chance at revenge was put aside because it was not worth Dean's life?

And how did he explain in a way Dean would understand and believe?


	2. Definite Maybe

I forgot to mention this at the beginning of the Prologue - if you have not read my previous stories (namely: _Welcome to the Club_ and _Melanic Manor_), you will be confused by my original character Kole. If you would like to get to know the character without reading the 20 or 13 chapter stories, pop on over to my LJ (link on my profile) and bring up the **tag** for character sketches. Also, if you go to the **tag** for explanations, you will find a quick summary for _my_ 'In My Time of Dying' in which John survives. Thank you.

* * *

**Definite Maybe**

There were some hunts in which Sam felt like they were merely going through the motions. This last one had been such a hunt. It was almost – well, _too easy_ wasn't right – textbook in it's preciseness. Once they located the hollow tree trunk that housed the argopelter, they were able to destroy it with only slight injuries – two small scratches on the left side of Sam's jaw and a jagged but shallow cut on Dean's right arm. Not too bad for a critter that throws big, mean splinters at passers-by.

And, it was just what they needed, or at least Sam thought so. He was in serious need of some down time, having spent the last two months on some pretty intense and exhausting hunts. There was the clowder of were-cats, the troll and its pair of changelings, and the particularly nasty little group of red-caps.

He had all but forgotten the dream he had nearly three months before. In fact, the only thing that kept coming back to him was the image of his father lying dead on the floor due to a fatal gun shot wound. And even that began to blur in the nightmarish vision of walking into his father's hospital room to find the man unconscious and almost dead from a sudden and unexplained heart attack.

He didn't think he had ever been so exhausted before. Sure, when he was younger, he remembered struggling through his father's calisthenics. There were days he would come back to whatever apartment or motel they were calling home at the time and barely making it through dinner before falling asleep. In those days, he had to make sure that his homework was done right after school, or he would have to wake up extra early in the mornings – which was never an easy task.

And he knew what it was like to be intellectually and academically tired. He could still remember jittery nights of marathon study sessions and term paper writing, where his only sustenance came from Red Bulls and chocolate covered coffee beans. Those were the times when he would stay awake for days on end only to finally crash, in the most literal sense, when the exam was taken or the report completed and handed in.

Now, though... Now was different. He had gone on plenty of hunts during his high school years and even more once he had joined up with his brother again. He had never been a couch potato – never really been lazy (even if his father had permitted it). He knew the satisfying fatigue that came after a successful hunt – the "runner's high" had nothing on the "hunter's high".

But, he also knew the bliss of discovery. He had always seemed to have breaks – or, pauses – in the vigorous action to sit down and research. Dean, being older and more coordinated, had always been better at the physical end of hunting. Sure, he could get some people to talk – random groups of people – hell, Sam knew perfectly well that they were the people he himself had trouble talking to. That's why they worked so well together. Dean and Sam complemented one another, inspired and improved the other, were truly yin and yang (though Sam would never say that to his brother because he knew that Dean would find the comment dirty in some way).

Its just that Sam had always had the chance to take a breather. He was good at problem solving and finding the hidden answers. And, unlike his brother, he enjoyed that aspect of the hunt. When he was younger, he felt more useful in that capacity. Even when he grew to match Dean in size – even when he outgrew and outweighed him – he never felt as powerful as his brother. But research... research was an area where he would almost always best his big brother.

When the two joined forces again, things had changed a bit. For one, they were _two_ and not three. It was not the same protocol as when Sam was in high school – that of a leader, his soldier, and his intelligence agent. When it was Dean and Sam, well it wasn't 50-50, but it was a lot closer to even than things had ever been.

Dean listened to Sam (for the most part), when John rarely heard. Dean acknowledged Sam's ideas, when John ignored them unless he had specifically asked for them. But most of all, while John had always made Sam feel like a soldier in his army (though later he realized how much his father _was_ trying to keep him safe in the only way he knew how), Dean made Sam feel not only wanted but needed. And appreciated. In a (sometimes) round-about way.

Things changed again when their cousin had joined them. Kole was not a hunter, though she had proven that she could handle a weapon if needed. Of course, to Dean's utter dismay and total disbelief, she still refused to use a gun – and would only ever hold a plastic water pistol. Which, the boys both had to agree that it was a good weapon – not as ingenious as Dean's rock-salt buck-shot invention, but a holy water squirt gun had come in handy on a few occasions.

But, what Kole excelled at was inquiry and investigation. Not having grown up in the world of ghosts and goblins and all other manner of things most people thought were only Halloween costumes, she didn't always have the solutions. She did, however, know all the legends and folklore and mythologies. So, while Kole may not have always been able to find answers, she knew how to dig in and ask the right questions. She knew how to glean information, even if it was simply by prompting Sam or Dean to find the resolution.

So Sam, for his part, had more free time to work in the field... as it were. That lead to the increasing physical exhaustion. The mental exhaustion came, not from research, but from his visions. The dreams and the daytime visions took a lot out of him mentally. They ranged in degree of power and pain from study-for-a-quiz to all out study-for-the-LSATs. And, it was taking its toll on his memory.

oo0oo

"How about this one?" Kole asked, handing the local newspaper – The Rosswood Times – over to Dean. The three of them were sitting at an outside table of a coffee shop and enjoying the pleasant warm-front that had taken over the small town.

It had been less than a week since they finished their last hunt and Dean was already getting restless. Sam didn't know how his brother did it. Sure, Sam felt the _thrill of the hunt_ and the contentment that came with helping people, saving people. But, he also liked to relax a bit afterwards. He liked to be able to recuperate.

Dean, on the other hand, was more like a junkie. And the hunt was his fix.

"Nope," Dean said after a quick scan of the article Kole pointed out.

"Oh," Kole said, taking the paper back and looking a little disappointed.

"You were thinking a siren, right?" he asked. She muttered something and seemed a bit embarrassed. "Hey," he said with a smile, "it was a good guess. In fact, I'd be willing to bet that that was what this Howard guy was aiming for – a succubus, or more likely a siren since the chick was a singer.

"I mean, the guy gets caught by his wife while in the _middle_ of the nasty with another woman... I don't know what happened between that and the time they found old Howie with blood on his hands and a dead singer in his bed, but I'm guessing the guy was in too much shock to come up with a better story."

"But how do you know he wasn't telling the truth?" she asked.

"Well, the dude lives near a lake with some decent sized rocks around it... not as dangerous as a traditional siren homestead, but close enough. Plus, the chick was a singer – a pretty good one according to the article – I don't know about enchanting or anything..."

"But?" she prompted when he trailed off.

"Well, look at her," Dean said simply. Kole looked at the photo in the paper again, then looked back and shrugged. "Hey, I'm not saying she's fugly or anything, but she's not exactly a ravishing beauty."

"And sirens appear beautiful until they kill," Kole said with a sigh, finally understanding, and went back to the newspaper for another try.

In his infinite wisdom, Dean had thought it would be a good idea to teach their cousin how to spot new jobs. She was getting better at weeding out the natural from the supernatural, and had actually found the gig with the argopelter. At first, Sam had just thought it was Dean trying to pass on his wisdom, much the same way he did when Sam was younger. But, it wasn't long before he figured out the real reason – Dean thought that they could find hunts faster that way.

Honestly, Sam didn't know how Dean kept up such a pace. Sam sometimes got the feeling that Dean would try and hunt even if he was in a full body cast.

"What about this?" Kole asked after another ten or more minutes.

oo0oo

_Tremblay House, _built by Rosswood's own Leonard Seff in 1927, is on the market once again. The house, in Tremblay county, was home to the Seff family for years until Leonard disappeared one night in 1945. Lionel, Leonard's 21-year-old son, had told the police that he feared the worst. "Father just hasn't been the same since Mother died. I think his grief finally got the better of him."

Annelisa Seff had passed away five years prior and Leonard had become a recluse since the day she was buried in the family plot at the back of the home.

Tremblay House had seen a few more owners through the years, but was uninhabited the night four local girls went missing. For ten years, the house had been vacant. It had also been a place famous among high schoolers as haunted and was the subject of many dares.

"I remember when I first moved here," said senior Mike James. "I made the varsity football team and the rest of the guys told me and Joey that we had to go through an initiation."

"Yeah," agreed junior Joe Kowalski. "They drove us to the house and told us we had to spend the night inside. It was a little spooky, but it was a dare, man. Its not like we could just _not_ do it."

"And its not like anything happened," said James. "We were told that the place was haunted and that people heard things and saw things there and stuff. But we didn't see or hear anything."

That might have been true in 1994, when the then-sophomore and freshman football players spent the night, but in 1997 the story had changed. For some unknown reason, four girls went into that house, but none of them came back out.

"Its weird," said James, "I thought the dare was only for new kids, or at least for kids who just made a team. But, that wasn't Lexi at all. She was born here, a senior, and had been head cheerleader for two years. Before that, she was on the squad. I mean, I don't know why she was even there."

James' girlfriend Alexis Tate and fellow cheerleaders Elizabeth Hart, Kimberly Boyd, and Jossalin Sweet were last seen driving up the hill towards Tremblay House. Boyd's car was discovered parked at the side of the house, but the girls were never seen again.

oo0oo

"Prospective buyers... blah blah blah," Dean muttered. He had started reading the article out loud, but when he came to the end – the 'non-relevant' part – he simply glossed over it. He gave a non-committal 'hmm' as he started looking over the story again, this time reading to himself.

"Well?" Kole asked eagerly. "I mean, haunted house, original owner missing, now four girls are gone..."

"I don't know..." Dean trailed off. He could see why the story had gotten her attention. It had all the makings of a haunted house – which is what made him almost doubt the authenticity. There had been a lot of these sorts of stories going around lately, and all, upon further research, had been busts.

And, if he was being completely honest with himself, he needed a more physical hunt. He knew his brother was tired – hell, maybe he would finish whatever their next gig was by himself to give the kid a rest – but _he_ couldn't stop. Dean knew that, if he even slowed down a little, he would start thinking. And he didn't want that.

When the Winchesters had left the hospital after their run-in with the demon-driven semi, they took some time off to heal. With all the downtime, Dean had nothing more to occupy his time than to replay all the events that had taken place when they teamed up with their father again. Especially what happened at the hospital.

Sam had told him about the coma, how his chances weren't good... and then how he suddenly woke up and was given a clean bill of health. Sudden – kind of like their father's heart attack. Dean remembered what it felt like facing the Demon, how it felt as though his chest was being torn open and his insides were being squeezed until they oozed out of the gaps. There was no doubt in his mind that the Demon could have done the same to his father – only, without the unexplainable holes.

Sam had also told him that their father asked for the Colt – and that Sam snuck the gun into the hospital. Funny how Dean never saw the weapon again after holding on his possessed father in that god-awful cabin. This _thing_ – the Holy Grail of their search for a way to fight the Demon, its discovery and ownership like winning the Super Bowl and going to Disneyland and somehow putting them all (including Mary and Jess) at peace – it was suddenly (there's that word again) disregarded as if it were no longer important. No one spoke of hiding it so they could get out of the hospital with it. No one discussed who would keep it once they inevitably separated again.

Dean may not have been a genius like his kid brother, but he knew that gun was gone.

And all that led to wondering... Why did Dad make the deal with the Demon in the first place? Was his life _really_ worth giving up the quest he and Sam had trained for all their lives? Did his health _really_ matter more than putting Mom and Jess's souls or spirits or memories (whatever) at peace? What about Sam – the Demon wants to turn the kid evil and Dad just _gave up_ the one way they knew how to stop It? Did Dad realize the mistake he made, too irrational and drugged up at the time, and that was why he went out on his own again? Was it all _his_ fault that -

"I think we should look into it," Sam spoke up as he grabbed the newspaper from Dean.

"Really?" Kole asked over Dean's quiet 'huh?' Sam rarely spoke up when Kole and Dean began playing their little game find-the-next-job. Dean assumed it was because Sam didn't like the idea of bringing their cousin more and more into the lifestyle. But, Dean was glad Sam spoke up this time – interrupted all that damn _thinking_ he was doing again.

Sam, however, didn't know why he thought that this was their kind of case. There was something about it – something that stuck with him... Maybe it was just that Tremblay county was only an hour or so away from Rosswood.


	3. Confirmed Rumors

**Confirmed Rumors**

When Sam checked them out of the motel and asked for directions, the old man at the front desk kindly photocopied a decades-old map of the area and drew their route with a red marker, making a couple of notes about the discrepancy in road names. He also told Sam that the drive from Rosswood to Fairwater (in Tremblay county) takes about an hour and a half, but up to two hours if the weather turns bad.

Dean made the trip in just under an hour.

The plan had been to head straight to the local library to find out more information about the Seff family, Tremblay House, and maybe read some further accounts from Mike James and Joe Kowalski or locate them and talk to them in person. That had been the plan, but a quick glance to the back seat and Sam knew they'd better rethink their first stop. He quickly told his brother that, if Dean valued his upholstery at all, he'd better find a hotel. And fast.

"Wow," Dean said as he and Sam headed for the library. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone quite that shade of green before. Well, there was _you_ after I told you exactly what was in head cheese..."

"Yes," Sam snapped at his brother's smirk. "And thank you so much for letting me in on that little secret _after_ I ate it."

"Hey, I told you what was in MacColla's black pudding... told you you shouldn't try it. But, no, you were always the suck-up. Saying you wanted to be _cultured_ or whatever."

"How is Mal these days?" Sam asked, purposely avoiding bad memories and latching onto the good.

"Its been awhile, but the last time I went for a visit, the old girl was insisting on being called Malvina again. Can you imagine – 72 years old and she is _still_ at the top of her game."

Sam chose not to comment. His brother had such a wistful look of admiration on his face that Sam didn't want to spoil it. To be honest, he was hoping to retire from hunting much sooner than that. Of course, Mal was more of a specialty bladesmith than a hunter – only taking time to hunt if needed (or, on the rare occasion, desired).

To Sam, the woman had always been a bit grandmotherly, though a little gruff and rough around the edges. She reminded him of Annie Oakley (a Scottish Ethel Merman version, anyway), always in an "anything you can do, I can do better" battle with any male hunter to come along. To watch the woman and his father argue, sometimes good-naturedly and sometimes not so much, was always entertaining.

"What was that?" Sam asked as he realized his brother had talking, mumbling, and he hadn't been paying attention.

"What?" Dean asked, caught off guard. "Oh, I just said that I hoped she'll be OK on her own."

"Mal?"

"No," Dean said with exasperation as he opened the library door for his brother. "I was talking about Kole."

"Oh, I'm sure she'll be fine. I mean, its not like she was coming down with something." The casualness of Sam's remark did not go unnoticed by his brother.

"Huh?" Yeah, he really couldn't come up with much better a question.

"Well Dean, after cruising the curvy back country roads at light speed, she was bound to feel ill eventually. The way _you_ drive, I'm surprised this is the first time its happened."

"What do you mean 'the way I drive'? There is nothing wrong with the way I drive."

"Have you paid any attention to your cousin at all? Have you noticed that, not only does she refuse to drive, she won't even sit in the front seat..."

"OK, yeah I've noticed I guess. So what?"

"Dean," Sam bordered on condescending, "her friend was killed in a car accident. Ever since, she's had a sort of phobia. Easily getting carsick would seem pretty normal... especially the way you drive," he added, under his breath, but loud enough for Dean to hear.

It was on the tip of his tongue to mention the what happens when Sam drives – a hitchhiking woman in white pops in, the Impala nearly gets totaled by a semi... which was as far as his brain got before his mouth snapped shut and backed out of the jab. He didn't want to talk about that night, or the following events in the hospital, let alone be the one to bring them up.

oo0oo

They had a sort of unspoken system when it came to dealing with locals and laypeople (non-hunters). A child or a young-ish woman got Dean's attention, an older woman (motherly or grandmotherly) or teen was approached by Sam, and (recently) any college-aged kid or male was met by Kole. A quick look to the help desk, and the blue-haired, bespectacled woman behind it, gave them all the information they needed to get them started on their research.

While Dean located a free table at the (strangely) populated library, Sam neared Mrs. Prim (as the nameplate told him) with his brightest boyish smile. As expected, Mrs. Prim looked up when she noticed him approaching and, with one look at his face, melted into _Grandma_ who would willingly answer any of his questions (with a promise of milk and cookies, should he be a good little boy).

Mrs. Prim (_oh, call me Esther, deary_) led Sam down to the basement where the old town newspapers were kept (_and what a gentleman, not letting me carry those heavy boxes_), all the while giving Sam the information he knew wouldn't be in the papers. Local gossip.

"Now, that was before my time, of course. Well, not technically before my time, but I wasn't old enough to string words together to form a sentence. However, my Auntie Sophia and Annelisa Seff were girlfriends way back when. Now, I don't mean _girlfriends_ like the kids do today, of course. I simply mean that they were close friends – got together for lunch and shopping, at the beauty parlor and such.

"Apparently, Leonard Seff was an even bigger name around these parts than it is now, if you can believe that. Story goes, he built that beautiful house for his lovely wife and son to be a kind of castle he thought they deserved – drew up the plans, even brought some of the materials over from Europe and everything."

"Materials?"

"Oh yes, deary. Now, they weren't from Germany, where I believe his family began. But, I think he found land in England or Ireland or France – my, I can't remember now – that had been in sweet Annelisa's family and brought over some of the remains of a house or cottage or castle or something back here to build their wonderful house."

They got to the shelf where the newspapers for the time period Sam asked for were held, when Esther stopped, sighed, and shrugged.

"I guess my old memory isn't what it used to be," she ruefully told him. "Finally, someone asks what I know, and _I_ can no longer remember the details. Isn't that's just Murphy's Law for you?"

"Actually, ma'am (he gave in at her reprimanding look) – Esther, I enjoyed the story. The article I read seemed to believe that everyone already knew about the Seff family. As an outsider, I'm glad to hear a local's point of view."

The small woman – really, she was only half Sam's size – smiled appreciatively. She quickly located the newspapers and began loading them into Sam's awaiting arms. It was odd. He had been doing 'the research thing' (as Dean put it) for quite some time, yet he had never asked for newspapers and gotten thick black binders as a result.

"M- Esther," he corrected himself before he could fully voice his 'ma'am', "these..." he faltered.

"Well," Esther smiled, "aren't you sweet, deary. All flustered, trying to figure out the nicest way to ask me why I'm handing you binders instead of newspapers." She let out a mischievous little laugh.

"Well, uhm..." Sam stuttered.

"Deary, this newspaper was about 20"x11" for the longest time. It almost resembled a book with all the pages simply folded in half and piled into one another. This," she nodded towards the binder, "was my granddaughter's very bright idea."

"Your granddaughter?"

"Stella..."

"Let me guess," Sam smiled, "named after her very bright grandmother?" Esther smiled her affirmation and continued.

"Stella – she's 24, you know (Sam blushed). Stella cut the newspaper pages in half and trimmed them up a little. Then, she slipped the pages into these protective sheets, put the sheets in binders, labeled them with the months and years... saved the library a lot of money on transferring the newspapers that macro-fish, or whatever."

"That is very clever," Sam smiled again. "Preserves not only the papers, but also the original look and feel. Preserves the history..."

He knew his brother would give him grief about his little display, if Dean had witnessed it. His older brother may excel at charming women out of their pants, but Sam was equally skilled in charming them out of information. For example, on their way back up the stairs to the main part of the library, Sam discovered that Mike James left town right after high school. He had gotten a football scholarship somewhere and had never come back. Even his family moved away.

Joe Kowalski, on the other hand, went to a community college nearby. He had stayed close because he helped take care of his ailing mother, as it was just the two of them. Both of the Kowalskis, however, were killed in a car accident on their way to the hospital. According to Esther, the mother had taken a turn for the worse and Joe was trying quickly get her the help she needed. It was dark and the weather was bad, and the poor boy lost control of the car.

So much for getting any more information from the two people who were as close to witnesses that they had heard of. The boys, Esther told him, had only been interviewed the one time – as they didn't seem to know anything that would help.

Sam found Dean and reluctantly relayed all of the information he had. Really, the only thing the knowledge was good for was to save time and trouble researching and coming up blank on their own.

Dean, though, surprised his little brother and had some information of his own.

"You found another witness?"

"A better witness," Dean told him with a smile as they left the library. "A witness who was actually there the night that the cheerleaders disappeared."

Sam looked at his brother for a moment, trying to decide if he even wanted to ask how Dean had gotten this new lead in such a short amount of time. Someone who had been at the house, someone who lived nearby (considering they were walking), someone who the police and the reporters were seemingly unaware of... Yeah, Sam _had_ to know.

"Well, Sammy-boy," again with that irritating smirk, "you have your talents and I have mine. While you were chatting up Grandma Moses in the basement (and now a leer and a wink), I was spending time with my own little librarian. She told me about the fifth cheerleader -"

"Fifth cheerleader? There were only four..." Sam trailed off when his brother stopped and raised an eyebrow at him, as if to say 'do you want to hear this or not?' "Sorry... so this fifth cheerleader..."

"Yeah, seems there were five girls on the squad. There were the four local-from-birth girls who were at the house for whatever reason, and there was one girl..." he trailed off, allowing Sam to finish.

"... who was either new to the school or new to the squad." At every school Sam had ever attended, it seemed the varsity cheerleaders came in packs of five or six. Here, they had only four names – the devil is truly in the details.

"Well, according to little miss library, it was both. The book worm's older sister was in the same class with said cheerleaders."

"Little miss library? Book worm? How do you get all this info and not get a name?"

"I got a name," Dean said defensively. "It was Stella."

oo0oo

Corrissa Swan might have technically lived _in town_, but it was pretty obvious that she was not a part of the town. It wasn't anything specific really – it was the little things. Things like the privacy fence that, at first, seems to section her yard from her neighbors'. But, on closer inspection, it is pretty plain that the wood does not match – that the fences are actually the neighbors' (who have not bothered with any sort of fencing on the remaining sides of their lawns).

There were also the barely visible edges of wood sticking up out of the grass at the front corner of the lawn. Taking a look at the houses around them, Dean and Sam could see the perfect rows of identical black mailboxes on wooden posts. Every house had them – except for the Swan house.

As they walked up to the front door, they saw bits of toilet paper in the trees and bushes, remnants or eggs and shaving cream (not to mention small dents caused by rocks) on the house and the car in the driveway, and a couple of scorch marks on the porch near the front door.

Dean lifted his fist to knock on the door, but it opened before he could connect. In the entryway stood a woman who, at first glance, looked to be nearing forty. But, after taking a moment to look closer, Dean could see that she was only a little older than he was. However, it was clear that years of stress and strain had prematurely aged what had once been a quite beautiful young woman.

"What?" she rasped.

Dean and Sam shared a quick look. Usually, this woman would have fit into Dean's range – right age, right gender. But, it was obvious that she was not a typical witness. The boys had talked about what angle they planned to play while interviewing Corrissa Swan – police, reporters, etc. – but they couldn't come to an agreement. It was about this point that Dean really wished his cousin was here. Then, at the thought of Kole, he quickly came up with a ridiculous (but hopefully believable) story.

"Good evening ma'am," Dean said with a pleasant (rather than on-the-prowl) smile. "I wonder if we might have a moment of your time." He learned long ago from his father that, when in doubt, avoid giving out information.

"If you've come to tell how great Jesus was and how God will save my soul and whatever, don't bother. I'm not religious." She began closing the door, but Dean took a step forward to block the path.

"No ma'am, we're not peddling Bibles or anything. We were just wondering if we could ask you a few questions."

"You reporters? Because, I don't know if that local rag told you, but I _will_ sue if you connect my name to - "

"No ma'am," Dean stopped her before she could get too upset, "we're not reporters. We're students... over at the college. Our professor gave us your name – said we should talk to you."

"Your professor? Name isn't Ricky Leeds, is it?" She said the name with such contempt and a sneer that Dean found his in.

"Well, I don't know about the 'Ricky' part," he said, turning to Sam and giving an exaggerated eye roll. "We didn't exactly... endear ourselves to Professor Leeds."

"Huh," she huffed a laugh and seemed to relax a little. "I guess that explains why he sent you to me. I knew that ass had become a teacher, though I never expected him to get as far as teaching a college course. So, what is this class of your?"

"Its a pre-law class," Sam took over. "Everyone was given an unsolved case to look into."

"Are students usually allowed to question people in an investigation?"

"Well," Dean stepped in again, "everyone else was given high profile cases and all the background available to the public. They don't actually question anyone; they just pair up and approach the material as if they could _then_ talk to witnesses and..."

"Basically," Sam picked up, "its all a sort of 'what if' situation. What if we were given these cases? How would be proceed? That sort of thing."

"Yeah," Dean finished, "but everyone else got national cases. I guess being the newbies in town, Leeds thought it would be safe giving us a local case. You know, since we haven't heard any of the local gossip."

"Oh yeah," Corrissa said with disdain, "I'm sure his reasons were purely ethical." She heaved a heavy, weary sigh. "Look, I have a couple minutes right now. Why don't you guys come in and ask whatever you need to."

"Thank you ma'am," Dean said as they walked through the door and she closed it behind them. Sam tried hard not to laugh – he didn't think he had ever heard his brother use the term 'ma'am' so many times in one conversation.


End file.
